


Sanctuary

by Empy (Empyreus)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Doubt, Elves, F/F, Femslash, Fluffy Ending, Lothlórien, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV Alternating, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 00:04:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13134987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empyreus/pseuds/Empy
Summary: In some hidden part of her heart she thinks of it as a new home, a sanctuary filled with starlight.





	Sanctuary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleth/gifts).



> Written for Elleth for the 2017 round of the Lord of the Rings Secret Santa.

She has learned the new angles to the stars here, that subtle change, and learned the shadows in the soft twilight and among the boles of the mellyrn. In some hidden part of her heart she thinks of it as a new home, a sanctuary filled with starlight.

From the dark Greenwood to the Golden Wood, on a painful path.

The heart-sickness is all but lifted, but it has been slow and agonizing, slower than the healing of her outward wounds. She could not save Kili and she could not save herself from the Orcs, from their poison darts. Mirkwood, which had always seemed to shelter her, turned against her as though alerted to the news of her banishment, the black-barked trees turning their backs on her as she sought their shelter in the aftermath of the battle. Out on the plains rimed with frost she had nowhere to hide. 

Days and nights ran into each other as she fled.

She had fought outnumbered before, but never for so long or without hope of reinforcements. Easy prey for Orcs. When the arrow struck her arm, she fell to her knees, the last vestiges of strength leaving her. The world was grey and each shadow grew monstrous as they approached, the sound of their howling wolves sounding like horn-calls.

 

When she woke, the stillness and soft bedding had startled her as badly as an another skirmish might have, simply by virtue of being so unexpected. Where there had been hard ground and chill air and the agony of her wounded arm, she now found warmth and ease, though when she stirred, pain prickled from wrist to shoulder. Moving her arm made it worse, jolting a hiss from her.

"Lie still. The wound is still too fresh to allow that movement." 

The speaker was a woman, seated in a high-backed chair by the bed. No mere Elf lady this, but royalty. Robed in silver and blue, seeming spun of mist and midnight skies but not spectral. She wore no crown but did not need the trappings of royalty. It was clear enough in her bearing and in her beauty. 

In her mind _Where am I?_ warred with _Who are you?_ , and her frown of confusion was mistaken for one of worry. 

"You are safe and your pursuers long dead. Rest now." The soft voice was kind but firm, allowing for no protest. "You are under the protection of the Lady Galadriel for as long as you remain within the borders of Lothlorien."

Lothlorien. The Golden Wood. Wisps of memory coalesced, weaving a hazy picture that still made her reel. "Galadriel," she murmured, casting her gaze down as her heart hammered in her chest.

When a cool hand settled on her forehead, she flinched.

"You need fear neither her nor me. Sleep."

 

When she woke, she was alone. Drifting in an out of sleep, she heard faint voices outside her room, the conversation too soft for her to grasp more than stray words and names. The clearest of the names was the most unexpected. _Arwen_. The Evenstar. Now the scattered pieces of memories old and new fell into place.

A thousand new questions burned on her tongue when she heard the door open, but they scattered like flakes of ash when she saw her visitor. Robed in blue and silver and fair as starlight. 

"Lady Arwen," she whispered.

"Yes." She smiled, then tilted her head. "Will you give me your name in return?"

"Tauriel," she said. "Of Mir--". She halted. 

"Of Mirkwood. Our scouts thought as much when they found you, but they would not risk taking you back. A wise choice. If you return, I must insist that you let them accompany you over the Anduin and further still."

When she intended to reply, Arwen held up her hand. "I do not want to see harm come to someone I have healed. I would have you be hale and well for many years yet."

She quashed her questions and offered her thanks instead, thoughts whirling. _She could have had their healers tend to me, but did not. Why?_ When she met Arwen's gaze, there were no answers there, but instead a soft spark she dared not guess the meaning of.

 

She saw that spark again and again as Arwen visited her, and each time her thoughts bent this way and that, leaving her no peace.

 

When she was well enough to rise from her bed, she left her sick-room, eager to shake the memories of her dark dreams as she healed. The thought of unseen sentries kept her from straying too far, but there was enough to explore even within a short distance. The trees, silver-barked, were pillar-boled unlike the spiny and spiky ones that lend perpetual shadow to the edges of Mirkwood, and she marvelled at how the bark slipped soft as silk under her palm as she ran her hands up the trunk to seek handholds.

She would not climb, she decided, not yet. Not with her arm still mending and not while she still puzzled over how long she might be allowed to remain. It must be a finite term. Surely this realm would reject her once word of her banishment reached them.

Yet as night followed night, no harsh missive came. Instead, there were kind requests for her to sit with the lady Arwen and to keep her company or to walk with her, and kind questions as to her health. Each request startled her. Surely she had no right to that, surely she was of too low a birth to merit such treatment? Her King had once reminded her harshly of her standing. And yet... no rejection came. Indeed, it seemed Arwen grew fond of her company.

 

Seeking out Luinil among the stars, she whispers a thank you to Varda, thanks her for this unexpected glimmer of hope that grows steadily stronger. 

 

* * *

It is no great task to guess where Tauriel might be, thinks Arwen as she looks up among the wide canopy of a mallorn. She eschews the telain and prefers to climb now that her wounded arm has healed.

There. A familiar silhouette with its head tilted up toward the stars. However, soon enough the shadow moves, at first looking down and then slipping as lithely as a falling feather from branch to branch and down to the leaf-dappled ground.

"My lady." Still that formal address, even though they have spent many hours together and even though she has given Tauriel leave to use her name. 

She plucks a fragment of mallorn-leaf out of Tauriel's red hair, marvelling as she often has at the vibrant colour of the long braids and curls. "Do you miss it?"

"The stars are the same though their places are a little shifted," replies Tauriel, side-stepping the true question. "The higher up I am, the clearer they seem."

"I did not ask you about the stars," she says, tempering the statement with a smile. "Do you miss the Greenwood?"

"Mirkwood is a more fitting name. Yet I still miss it, even banished as I am." There is a little bitterness undercutting the words, but stronger than that is sadness. "Once I was Captain of the Guard, and now I have little more than my name." Her hand flits to her throat, but she halts the gesture halfway.

Arwen has seen that gesture more than once, seen Tauriel clutch the delicate silver necklace she wears as if seeking assurance or to grasp at a memory. She reaches out and lifts the pendant, turning it to let the gem catch the light. A star wreathed in thorns, so like its bearer. She sets it back gently, releasing the thin silver chain, then lifts her hand to brush the backs of her fingers across Tauriel's cheek.

"Do you worry we might banish you also?"

"I have incurred so great a debt of gratitude already, that I fear I shall never be able to repay it fully."

She laughs before she can stop herself. "You speak as though you have given nothing. What little debt there might have been was settled long ago." She begins to walk, smiling as Tauriel falls into step with her without prompting. 

 

* * *

 

She falls back a step, then two, then quickens her pace to walk by Arwen's side once more for a moment before stopping both of them by grasping Arwen's hand.

"Though you say my debt is settled, I would still offer something."

Doubt stays her, but only for a moment. The night air she breathes in is crisp and clear as the water of the Silverlode and the heat in her veins bright as a candle-flame. She tips Arwen's chin up gently, her heart leaping at the sight of the soft smile, then leans in to kiss her.

It is a foolish thing to take such liberties, but she has often dispensed with rules she finds too cumbersome. Has she not been given leave to be more free? What better way to honour that and to repay the intangible debt she feels she still owes? 

Arwen's fingers card through her hair, the hold gentle but firm, intended to keep her where she is. But why would she flee? She settles her free hand on the small of Arwen's back and pulls her closer, feeling her heartbeat tick faster at her own boldness.

"I will consider this a gift, then, and receive it gratefully," murmurs Arwen, amusement colouring her voice. "And offer one in return."

 

Tauriel remembers little of the path they take among the silvery trees, but remembers each caress and each whispered word. Forgets each detail of Arwen's bower but remembers each inch of her skin and each hitch in her breathing. 

 

Night has crept up upon them, painting the sky indigo as they forgot hours and minutes. Though she is tired, sleep eludes her even as Arwen falls into a light slumber in her arms.

She looks up at the arches of the tall windows, searching the sliver of sky for Wilwarin and Remmirath. A flurry of snowflakes drifts into the halo of the silver lamps hanging outside. The snow, falling soft and silent, looks like a rain of silver, each flake a falling star to carry a wish. She does not voice her wishes, because one never should.

What she voices is a song rising from the wells of memory, singing it as softly as it was once sung to her. The words are out of season but it does not matter.

_Stars of the summer night_  
_Far in yon azure deep_  
_Hide, hide your golden light_  
_She sleeps, my lady sleeps_

_Moon of the summer night_  
_Far down yon western steeps_  
_Sink, sink in silver light_  
_She sleeps, my lady sleeps_

[END]

**Author's Note:**

> The song is called "My Lady Sleeps", and is based on a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The version I listened to quite heavily while writing is by The Mediaeval Baebes.


End file.
